YORK | |
The army of the queen hath got the field: | |
| | My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; | |
| | And all my followers to the eager foe | |
| | Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind | |
| | Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves. | 5 |
| | My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them: | |
| | But this I know, they have demean'd themselves | |
| | Like men born to renown by life or death. | |
| | Three times did Richard make a lane to me. | |
| | And thrice cried 'Courage, father! fight it out!' | 10 |
| | And full as oft came Edward to my side, | |
| | With purple falchion, painted to the hilt | |
| | In blood of those that had encounter'd him: | |
| | And when the hardiest warriors did retire, | |
| | Richard cried 'Charge! and give no foot of ground!' | 15 |
| | And cried 'A crown, or else a glorious tomb! | |
| | A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!' | |
| | With this, we charged again: but, out, alas! | |
| | We bodged again; as I have seen a swan | |
| | With bootless labour swim against the tide | 20 |
| | And spend her strength with over-matching waves. | |
| | [A short alarum within] |
| | Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue; | |
| | And I am faint and cannot fly their fury: | |
| | And were I strong, I would not shun their fury: | |
| | The sands are number'd that make up my life; | 25 |
| | Here must I stay, and here my life must end. | |
| | [Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, |
| | PRINCE EDWARD, and Soldiers] |
| | Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, | |
| | I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: | |
| | I am your butt, and I abide your shot. | |
QUEEN MARGARET | |
Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, | |
| | Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, | |
| | That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, | |
| | Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. | |
| | What! was it you that would be England's king? | 70 |
| | Was't you that revell'd in our parliament, | |
| | And made a preachment of your high descent? | |
| | Where are your mess of sons to back you now? | |
| | The wanton Edward, and the lusty George? | |
| | And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy, | 75 |
| | Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice | |
| | Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies? | |
| | Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland? | |
| | Look, York: I stain'd this napkin with the blood | |
| | That valiant Clifford, with his rapier's point, | 80 |
| | Made issue from the bosom of the boy; | |
| | And if thine eyes can water for his death, | |
| | I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. | |
| | Alas poor York! but that I hate thee deadly, | |
| | I should lament thy miserable state. | 85 |
| | I prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York. | |
| | What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails | |
| | That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? | |
| | Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad; | |
| | And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. | 90 |
| | Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. | |
| | Thou wouldst be fee'd, I see, to make me sport: | |
| | York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown. | |
| | A crown for York! and, lords, bow low to him: | |
| | Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. | 95 |
| | [Putting a paper crown on his head] |
| | Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! | |
| | Ay, this is he that took King Henry's chair, | |
| | And this is he was his adopted heir. | |
| | But how is it that great Plantagenet | |
| | Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath? | 100 |
| | As I bethink me, you should not be king | |
| | Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. | |
| | And will you pale your head in Henry's glory, | |
| | And rob his temples of the diadem, | |
| | Now in his life, against your holy oath? | 105 |
| | O, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable! | |
| | Off with the crown, and with the crown his head; | |
| | And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. | |
YORK | |
She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, | |
| | Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth! | |
| | How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex | |
| | To triumph, like an Amazonian trull, | |
| | Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! | 115 |
| | But that thy face is, vizard-like, unchanging, | |
| | Made impudent with use of evil deeds, | |
| | I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. | |
| | To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived, | |
| | Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. | 120 |
| | Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, | |
| | Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, | |
| | Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. | |
| | Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? | |
| | It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen, | 125 |
| | Unless the adage must be verified, | |
| | That beggars mounted run their horse to death. | |
| | 'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; | |
| | But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small: | |
| | 'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired; | 130 |
| | The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at: | |
| | 'Tis government that makes them seem divine; | |
| | The want thereof makes thee abominable: | |
| | Thou art as opposite to every good | |
| | As the Antipodes are unto us, | 135 |
| | Or as the south to the septentrion. | |
| | O tiger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide! | |
| | How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, | |
| | To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, | |
| | And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? | 140 |
| | Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible; | |
| | Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. | |
| | Bids't thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish: | |
| | Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will: | |
| | For raging wind blows up incessant showers, | 145 |
| | And when the rage allays, the rain begins. | |
| | These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies: | |
| | And every drop cries vengeance for his death, | |
| | 'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false | |
| | Frenchwoman. | 150 |
YORK | |
That face of his the hungry cannibals | |
| | Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood: | |
| | But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, | 155 |
| | O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. | |
| | See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears: | |
| | This cloth thou dip'dst in blood of my sweet boy, | |
| | And I with tears do wash the blood away. | |
| | Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this: | 160 |
| | And if thou tell'st the heavy story right, | |
| | Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; | |
| | Yea even my foes will shed fast-falling tears, | |
| | And say 'Alas, it was a piteous deed!' | |
| | There, take the crown, and, with the crown, my curse; | 165 |
| | And in thy need such comfort come to thee | |
| | As now I reap at thy too cruel hand! | |
| | Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world: | |
| | My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads! | |
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